


Sign Here

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom!Eames, Edgeplay, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Switching, top!arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's an art dealer who hasn't found the time to date in a while; Eames is the deliveryman/artist who might like to show Arthur his etchings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sign Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written with the [Arthur/Eames Romance Tropes Fest](http://arthur-eames.dreamwidth.org/13409.html) in mind.

Arthur had never been satisfied with the UPS delivery notification system. He signed up for text and email alerts, and every time, checking on the site itself gave him faster results, thereby defeating the purpose of signing up for the alerts. He didn’t know why they couldn’t get it right. The status on the website for his Louis Poulsen office lamp was “out for delivery,” which could mean almost anything. Arthur just wanted to check it off his list and set it up. He’d put in a lot of work to get this corner office, and he wanted it to look perfect.

Arthur finished his deli sandwich, and returned to checking and answering his email. He was absorbed in arranging dates on his calendar when the receptionist called, letting him know he had a package waiting in the gallery’s lobby.

Walking downstairs, Arthur absently smoothed wrinkles in his pants as he scanned the lobby. He was expecting to see Derek, the driver who usually handled this route. But the man talking to Sherri at the front desk, facing away from Arthur, wasn’t Derek. Holiday season, Arthur figured; temporary drivers.

Arthur stepped up to the desk and cleared his throat politely; Sherri and the driver were engaged in the usual conversational pleasantries. Strangely, the driver had an English accent. Arthur gave him a curious look, and the driver turned to him, smiling. Arthur’s breath caught.

The driver was ridiculously handsome, with friendly sea-green eyes and a remarkably plush mouth. He looked to be about Arthur’s age. Arthur forgot what he was doing and why he was down here, until the driver broke their gaze and held out the electronic pad. “If you’d just sign here, please,” he said, jovial but with a hint of shyness. Arthur signed.

“D’you need this carried upstairs?” the driver asked, looking in the direction of Arthur’s office. “It’s rather bulky.” He shrugged.

Arthur considered. The lamp’s box was long and unwieldy, and it wouldn’t do to risk breaking it now that it was finally here. Not to mention the fact that he wouldn’t mind this driver staying a little longer. “Help me out?” he suggested. “I’ll take the front end, you take the rear?” The driver nodded, putting away his electronic pad, and bent to take up the bottom of the box. Arthur took hold of the top, and they moved toward the stairs.

Arthur led the way to his office, sorry that he couldn’t get a prime view of the driver from behind, but after all, it did make sense for the driver to be responsible for the bulk of the weight. Arthur was strong enough, but this man was seriously built, even if he was a little shorter than Arthur.

In Arthur’s office, they set the box in the middle of the open space in front of the desk. Arthur turned to smile at the driver, who smiled back, almost startled, again with an odd air of shyness. There was an awkward pause, and the driver backed toward the door. “Er, have a great day, sir.”

“Thanks. You too,” Arthur called after him.

\-------

Exhausted and incredibly hungry, Eames took some ibuprofen and sat down with a big plate of chicken and pasta in front of the telly. He ached all over, but he couldn’t say he regretted taking this job. It got him out of his flat, kept him active, and garnered him some much-needed cash. Eames wasn’t doing as well in Los Angeles as he’d hoped, when it came to his career or his social life. He didn’t really know anyone here, and gregarious and charming as he could be, he couldn’t seem to find his place.

As he’d found himself doing all day, Eames noticed his thoughts drifting back to the man he’d spoken to at the art gallery earlier. The gorgeous one. There were plenty of good-looking people in L.A., but this man... he was stunning. Tall, fit; long legs in tailored trousers. His dark brown hair was neatly combed back, and he had sharp dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a cupid’s-bow mouth. Eames wanted to paint him... and do other things to him, of course. He thought of the way the man’s dimples appeared when he smiled, the way his eyes crinkled warmly, and wondered if he’d be able to capture that expression. Wondered if he’d see it again, period.

And good Lord, when he’d said “you take the rear” and walked in front of Eames up the stairs? _Don’t mind if I do_ , Eames thought.

Eames had double-checked the name on the packing slip before he’d set the box down, and yes, the man was named Arthur, improbably enough. Never before had this name seemed remotely sexy to Eames. _Wonders will never cease_ , Eames mused as he stood to rinse his plate in the sink.

\--------

Arthur was lucky enough to have his job and his gym within walking distance of his house. Post-shower, he packed up his bag and headed home in the slight chill of the December evening. As he tried to decide what to make for dinner, he found his thoughts wandering to the driver he’d seen that morning. Honestly, it wasn’t the first time today he’d thought about him. He’d had to deliberately think about something else in the shower at the gym.

Once home, Arthur fed his black Lab, Petey, and made himself a quick stir fry. In bed with his laptop, he checked his email, his calendar, and his spreadsheet of pending online order deliveries. He couldn’t help hoping he’d see that driver again.

Arthur’s next delivery wasn’t until Saturday, as it turned out, at his home address. Petey wasn’t out back where he usually was when deliveries came, and Arthur in his undershirt, jeans, bare feet, and bedhead tried to keep Petey from going ballistic when the doorbell rang. Usually, Petey was good about strangers, but today he was excitable.

Arthur barely had time to hope it was the hot driver, frown at himself for hoping, and check the peephole -- yes, against all odds, it was the hot driver -- before he opened the door and Petey was attempting to bound outside. Arthur took hold of his collar and wedged himself firmly in front of Petey. “Um, hi,” he said to the driver.

“Just an envelope today,” he said to Arthur as he crouched to smile at Petey, and the fact was he was too close to crotch level for Arthur’s comfort.

“D’you mind if I pet him, give him a treat?” the driver said, glancing up at Arthur. It was a bright morning and his face already looked sunkissed, laugh lines around his eyes.

“You’ve got treats?” Arthur asked, impressed.

“Yeah.” The driver shrugged. “You never know what dogs you’ll come across.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Petey was calmer now, and when Arthur told him to sit, he did. He kept wagging his tail like mad, and panted happily at the driver as he petted Petey, told him he was a good boy, and gave him treats. He did seem like a dog person, Arthur thought as he signed for the envelope and reached to drop it on the table in the foyer.

“What’s his name?” the driver asked as Arthur returned his attention to the doorway and stood watching. Petey rolled around on the stoop, ecstatic.

“It’s Petey,” Arthur replied, smiling as the driver rubbed Petey’s belly and the dog responded with a happy wiggle. Then, Arthur dared to satisfy some of his curiosity. “What’s your name?” he asked the driver, who looked up, smile widening.

“Eames.”

“Eames? Like the designers?” Arthur replied, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah.” Eames shrugged, standing, rubbing the back of his neck. “No relation. It’s my last name, but everyone calls me that. I’ll just be off, then.”

“All right.” Arthur handed the pad to him and got Petey back inside, not wanting him to dash after Eames. He felt as though he should say something like “Nice seeing you again” but that was weird, wasn’t it? “Uh, thanks, Eames,” he said instead, with a brief wave. Eames waved back, and jogged to his truck, and Arthur got another good look at him from the back. He reflected once again on the fact that he could barely remember the last time he’d gone on a date.

\-------

Eames had been surprised that morning to realize that he’d be delivering something else to Arthur, but this time to another address. What appeared to be his home address, actually. And sure enough, there was Arthur -- only instead of in neat trousers and an oxford with rolled-up sleeves and a tie, he was in a worn, soft-looking white t-shirt and old jeans, and he was barefoot. Barefoot! And he had bedhead. Eames felt as though he’d witnessed something unbearably intimate. Then he realized he was practically swooning over someone he barely knew.

He’d recovered well, he reflected as he turned off Arthur’s street to continue his route. Eames wasn’t the self-conscious sort, but something about Arthur made him feel bashful, like a kid with a crush.

And then there was the fact that Arthur had a corner office in one of the most well-known galleries in Los Angeles. A gallery Eames would kill to show at, one he’d daydreamed about.

\-------

On Tuesday morning, Arthur stood in the lobby talking with his boss about a show’s layout when he distantly registered the front door opening. “Good morning,” an English voice called, and Arthur turned on his heel without thinking about it to catch Eames’ eye as he held out a package for Sherri. He turned back around, resuming the conversation as smoothly as he could, but he wondered if Eames had caught his blush. His ears were probably turning pink. What was he so jumpy about, anyway? Just because he’d had not one but two hot dreams about the man over the weekend didn’t mean anything.

Arthur purposefully lingered by the reception area when his boss went to the breakroom to get some coffee for their morning meeting. Eames caught his eye again as he pocketed his electronic pad. When Eames, in what seemed to be a nervous gesture, rubbed at his arm, Arthur noticed that he had a long-sleeved brown shirt under his uniform shirt, rolled up at his elbows. Arthur caught a glimpse of a tattoo, and his mouth went dry as he found himself revising his mental image of what Eames looked like under that uniform. “Hello, Arthur,” Eames offered, and Arthur snapped back to attention.

“Morning, Eames,” he replied, but then his boss reappeared and called him over for the meeting. Arthur gave Eames a wry shrug and called over his shoulder, “See you later” as he walked away.

For the rest of the day, Arthur found his thoughts wandering to whether Eames had any more tattoos, and where they might be.

\-------

“I think he likes you,” Sherri whispered conspiratorially, and Eames blinked, still thinking about Arthur in that turquoise cashmere jumper. He’d just started to picture peeling it off, the checked oxford following....

“Who?”

“You.”

“No, I mean... who?”

“Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. He doesn’t go out of his way to be nice to just anybody. Pleasant enough guy, but... really businesslike. He’s not seeing anybody,” she added, with a wink.

Eames had quickly learnt that receptionists were invaluable resources and good to have on your side. “Am I that obvious?” he murmured, leaning in with a grin.

“Little bit,” Sherri replied, looking at him over her pink-framed glasses. She reminded Eames of one of his aunts.

“I must be going, Sherri. Lots of packages to handle and all that,” he said with a laugh. “Do let me know if there are any further developments.”

“Oh, I will, honey.”

\-------

Arthur was running late the following Thursday, and he only had time to put on his glasses rather than put in his contacts.

He had three rather large packages scheduled to be delivered, and when Eames brought the first one in and saw Arthur, he nearly tripped. He recovered quickly, however, and went to get the second package. But Eames, seemingly in a hurry, didn’t linger after the last package was delivered. Arthur and Sherri took the boxes to his office, and as Arthur got out his Exacto knife Sherri said, “Arthur, that UPS guy has a crush on you.”

“You sure you’re not mistaking his polite English manners for him having a crush on me?” Arthur teased.

“Seriously, Arthur, he more or less told me.”

“Sherri.” Grinning, Arthur shook his head and sliced into the seam of one of the boxes. “What is this, middle school? Did he pass you a note to give me reading ‘Do you like me, check yes or no’?”

“I told him you weren’t seeing anybody,” Sherri said, triumphant.

“You’re worse than my mother. How do you know I’m not seeing anybody?”

“Nobody who’s seeing somebody looks at the UPS guy like that.”

Arthur laughed. “Either I’m unusually bad at subtlety or you’re incredibly perceptive.”

“Try both,” Sherri smirked. A call came in on her headset and she excused herself, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which were decidedly Eames-based; par for the course these days. Learning Eames might be interested in him certainly wasn’t going to change that at all.

\-------

Arthur in glasses. Well, this was just getting ridiculous. Sitting in traffic at a red light, Eames scrubbed his hands over his face. He wanted nothing more than to ask Arthur out for coffee. Well, that wasn’t true; he wanted more than that. Realistically speaking, he’d settle for that right now. But... Arthur was a dealer at a successful gallery. He had expensive tastes, clearly. Why would he want to go out for coffee or anything more with a delivery driver? If he did, he’d just think of Eames as a quick fling, a bit of fun. That had its merits, but Eames was fairly sure he wanted more than that from Arthur, and just getting a taste would hardly be acceptable.

And if he found out Eames was an artist, he’d think Eames was being sly, trying to get an in.

Unbidden, Eames’ mind conjured up a memory of Arthur in glasses, absentmindedly running a hand over his hair as he nodded at something Sherri had been saying. “Stop that,” he muttered sternly to his cock. He’d always had a thing about glasses, and now he had a thing about Arthur.

Something had to give. Either he’d have to hope the end of the holiday sale season came quickly without further awkward incident, or he’d have to ask Arthur to coffee.

\-------

Arthur went to New York for a week to visit their sister gallery, leaving Petey with a neighbor. New York was, as usual, decidedly different from L.A., especially in terms of the weather. Arthur spent most of his time bundled up and/or drinking hot coffee. He did find his mind wandering to Eames, even though he’d told himself these days would be good to clear his head.

He hadn’t so much as walked through the front door of the gallery when Sherri informed him that the UPS guy had missed him. He arched a brow.

“He did! He looked like a lost puppy every day he didn’t see you. He even asked where you were.”

Arthur sighed. Sherri rolled her eyes.

“Arthur! Just ask him out.”

“Sherri, c’mon. It’s... weird hitting on the UPS guy.”

“It is not. Not if he already likes you.”

Arthur ignored that. “You know how busy I am. This guy probably deserves more time than I could give him right now.”

“So you’ve been thinking about it.”

“So what if I have?”

Sherri just smirked as he walked past the reception desk to the stairs.

\-------

Arthur couldn’t be blamed for taking advantage of holiday sales. He had an office to decorate, after all, and he could always use new things at home. The next time he saw Eames, it was when he was carrying in a large box that could only be a framed painting, one for Arthur’s office rather than the gallery.

Eames lingered this time, looking at the box with interest -- more interest, Arthur thought with surprised amusement, than he’d looked at Arthur with so far. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. A different type of interest, then.

“You like art?” he asked. Eames jumped. “Oh, er, yeah, I know a thing or two,” he answered, and then took his leave. Interesting, Arthur thought.

\-------

Later that week, Eames had another delivery to Arthur’s house. Arthur answered the door in glasses, a plaid flannel shirt, and jeans. Somehow, even dressed casually at home he looked neatly put together. Eames noticed he was barefoot this time as well.

“Oh, I thought this was FedEx,” Arthur remarked, taking the box, which had a generic-sounding From address and had no other identifying printing besides Arthur’s information.

“Been cheating on me, then?” Eames couldn’t resist teasing. When Arthur laughed, a flush at the tips of his ears as he signed the pad, Eames found himself adding, “You know what we deliverymen say when we notice conspicuously unmarked parcels.”

“What do you say?” Arthur pursued, smiling, handing back the pad.

“You’ve ordered something naughty,” Eames said, with a wink. Arthur honest-to-God blushed, laughing again, conjuring up those dimples. Eames knew he’d said too much but he hadn’t been able to stop himself, and it was worth putting that look on Arthur’s face.

\--------

“Naughty”! “Parcels”! Arthur could listen to Eames talk all day. Of course, it was nine o’clock at night at the office when he was reflecting on this, and it was three days since he’d seen Eames. And he had in fact ordered something naughty. Something he wished he could return home to very shortly, if he couldn’t return home to Eames.

Arthur rubbed his hands over his face. This was absurd. The sexual frustration alone was going to do him in.

The next morning, Eames dropped off a Jonathan Adler vase for Arthur’s office, taking extra care as the package was marked FRAGILE everywhere it possibly could be. Again, he lingered a bit as Arthur and his boss discussed an upcoming meeting with an artist about her installation. Arthur noticed him watching them, listening, and smiled at him. Eames blushed. “I’ll be going, then,” he said, pocketing the signature pad and turning to leave. Arthur filed that away next to his other hint of Eames’ interest in the gallery. Typically, deliverymen were too busy to take much interest in their art, or they simply had no reason to care.

\-------

Several days later, Eames was walking down the gallery’s front steps after delivering some envelopes when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking again, he realized Arthur was standing at the side of the building just around the corner, where the landing wrapped around. Well, that explained why he hadn’t seen Arthur inside. Curious, he walked over, eyebrows raised.

Arthur stood against the wall, scowling at the ground, smoking. Eames blinked. The sight of Arthur with his sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loose, brows drawn in a deep scowl with his long, shapely fingers grasping a cigarette kicked Eames’ heartbeat to a faster pace. For all the world he looked like an anti-social delinquent at a boys’ school.

Arthur turned and saw Eames, and looked startled as a slight flush colored his cheeks.

“Everything all right?” Eames offered.

Arthur sighed. “Just been having some difficulties this morning.” He shook his head. “It’ll blow over. It always does.”

Eames nodded, and scratched the back of his head. He was about to offer some soothing words when Arthur stepped forward, pointing at his elbow. Eames looked at where he was pointing. He had a large patch of green acrylic paint there that hadn’t quite come off.

“Is that what I think it is?” Arthur asked, smiling now, a look Eames decided he preferred on Arthur despite how attractive his scowling was.

“Er, yeah.” Eames folded his arms.

“So you do paint.”

“Yeah. I was... finishing up a large-scale abstract landscape.”

“Is it a hobby or do you sell your work?” Arthur stepped closer, leaning out of the way only to exhale and grind out his spent cigarette under his wingtip. There was no ashtray around. Eames remembered smoking was much more unpopular in L.A. than most places he’d been, which was why Arthur had sequestered himself over here.

“Trying to make a career out of it,” Eames answered reluctantly. Arthur was now close enough to kiss. Eames could smell his aftershave. He was reminded that he’d been planning to ask Arthur out for coffee only to have his momentum thwarted by Arthur’s going out of town for a week. He took a deep breath. “Listen, Arthur--”

Arthur’s BlackBerry chimed just then, and with a deep frown he took it out of his pocket and glanced at it. Whatever he read there earned a scoff and a roll of his eyes. Arthur sighed. “Eames, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you around.” He placed his hand briefly on Eames’ forearm as he walked past.

At his next stop, Eames still felt a tingle where Arthur’s palm and fingers had touched him.

\-------

The gallery was closed on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and Arthur, being Jewish, celebrated both days by sleeping in as late as he possibly could before he took Petey out to run. As he jogged, he found himself thinking about how busy Eames must be. He realized on Christmas Day that he’d never asked and didn’t know whether Eames was a seasonal employee who’d go back to whatever his day job was once the holidays were over. In fact, there were a number of things Arthur wanted to ask Eames that he hadn’t. Yet.

Back at work, Arthur felt rested. There wasn’t a great deal going on at the gallery now that they were in the no-man’s-land between Christmas and the end of the year. There was, however, going to be a New Year’s Eve party at the gallery. Arthur had almost forgotten about it. He’d never really enjoyed New Year’s Eve parties, and now he couldn’t help wanting to invite Eames as his date. With Boxing Day sales and returns, though, Eames had to be incredibly busy, and Arthur didn’t have his number. The driver Arthur saw one morning wasn’t even Eames. Arthur tried not to feel personally affronted by that.

On the 30th, Arthur was waiting on an order of electronics he’d bought on deep discount online. He told himself that if the driver were Eames, he’d ask him to the New Year’s Eve party.

As luck would have it, when Petey heard the truck’s engine and ran to the door, Arthur looked out the front window to see Eames. He looked to be in a hurry.

Arthur nudged Petey aside and opened the door, taking the package from Eames as they exchanged greetings, and setting it aside. He took the pad Eames offered, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him despite Petey’s whines of protest.

“Look, Eames,” he began. “I know you’re busy, and this is really late notice, so I don’t blame you if you say no, but we’re having a party tomorrow night at the gallery, and....” He shrugged, trailing off. Eames was staring at him, oddly intense. Arthur felt his face turning red. “Um, sorry. Sorry. I was going to ask you to go with me but that’s inappropriate, right?” He sighed.

Eames blinked and opened his mouth to speak. Arthur reached behind himself to open the door. “I’m putting you on the spot. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” He turned.

“Wait, Arthur.” When Arthur looked back, Eames was smiling slightly. “I’ll go with you. I just don’t think I’ve anything nice enough to wear to a gallery party.”

“I bet you can make anything look good,” Arthur said over Petey’s whines from behind the door. “When in doubt, wear black.” Eames nodded, and bit his lip.

“So. Tomorrow at nine, at the gallery?” Arthur asked, pulling at his sweater.

“Sure,” Eames said with a shy smile.

“See you then,” Arthur said, grinning back.

\-------

Eames was so flustered he nearly left his flat with only one cufflink. “Bloody useless things,” he muttered to himself as he stalked back to his dresser.

He’d only driven to the gallery for work before, and wasn’t terribly excited about driving his own car there and trying to find parking, and being tired tomorrow. But even so, he was sure it was going to be worth it to be Arthur’s date to a party.

The gallery was adorned with fairy lights out along the walkway. Inside, it was beautifully lit. Eames had never seen the gallery at night before. People milled about on the steps and in the entryway, mostly dressed in black formalwear.

Eames scanned them for Arthur, knowing he’d be able to recognize the man at a distance. But he was well in the lobby before Arthur strode over to him, beaming. Eames suppressed the urge to go in for a kiss, whether on lips or cheek, and shook Arthur’s hand as it was offered with a smile. “Eames,” Arthur said, pleased, wine faint on his breath.

Arthur was in all black, sleek as a raven’s wing. His hair was gelled back rather severely, and Eames missed those loose curls that looked so soft to the touch when dry.

“I’ll introduce you to everyone here you need to know,” Arthur said, turning to get in step with Eames, putting an arm over his shoulder in a way that felt decidedly no more than friendly. Eames was beginning to wonder if this was in fact not a date, and was actually Arthur’s way of getting him to network, instead. He felt himself sink in disappointment at the possibility.

Arthur brought him a glass of wine and started showing him around the large gallery room serving as the party venue. A jazz trio was set up in the corner. It was quite crowded, and Eames was thankful for the wine loosening his tongue as Arthur began busily introducing him to people in their vicinity.

He took Eames around to look at the works, and asked him searching questions about his own art. It seemed, however, that he was asking from a professional perspective, not out of the personal curiosity Eames had thought he’d seen evidence of. Maybe Arthur thought he’d take on Eames as a client. Before he’d met Arthur, that would have been all Eames would have wanted.

With a greater knowledge of Eames’ background and portfolio now, Arthur introduced him to yet more people. Eames distracted himself from fretting over Arthur’s intentions with increasingly lively conversation with the other partygoers, who were, after all, big names in the Los Angeles art world. Luckily, he had thought to bring some business cards, and he passed them out and collected some in return. Perhaps something good would come of this after all.

\-------

Arthur decided Eames was a hit. He was charming, intelligent, and looked good enough to eat. He was in black, dressed almost like Arthur except for his dark blue shirt and the fact that he had no tie. Arthur hadn’t missed that his collar was open enough to reveal inked script under his clavicle, as well as some chest hair.

Arthur wished he could treat Eames like a real date: lean in to whisper in his ear, slide a hand under his jacket to the small of his back, kiss his cheek. Instead, he busied himself with furthering Eames’ professional life. This was safe ground, and would be far more useful to Eames.

“You and your date look good together,” Sherri stage-whispered in Arthur’s ear as she passed by, there and gone too fast for him to retort or attempt to smack her.

Someone had turned on the large TV mounted to the gallery wall, Arthur realized once he noticed the volume getting louder. Dick Clark was on. Arthur realized with a start that they were five minutes away from midnight. He noticed the couples that came here drawing closer together. Jaw dropping a little, he glanced at Eames, who was talking to a buyer.

Arthur swallowed. Damn, he’d forgotten about the kiss. Were they supposed to kiss? Arthur certainly wanted to kiss Eames. Who wouldn’t?

Eames turned to look at him as the buyer went on his way, and they blinked at each other. This was going to be the longest five minutes of Arthur’s life.

Looking away, Eames took a Champagne flute from a passing catering employee with a smile and a word of thanks. Arthur took a flute as well.

They stood next to each other, shoulders just brushing, and silently watched Dick Clark and whatever ridiculousness he was talking about, which Arthur couldn’t pay much attention to. The countdown finally started, everyone in the gallery shouting along, flutes raised.

As everyone else shouted “Happy New Year!” they clinked their glasses together, and each of them took a sip. Arthur turned, leaned in, cupped Eames’ jaw, and pressed his lips to Eames’.

Eames’ lips were soft, dry except for a taste of Champagne. He inhaled as if he’d just realized what was happening, and in the next split second Arthur was drawing back, downing the rest of his drink. “Happy New Year, Eames,” he said as he started walking to a long table against the far wall, to deposit his empty glass.

\-------

Rooted to the spot, Eames blinked. Arthur had kissed him. He drank the rest of his Champagne and wandered over to the table Arthur had headed toward as if on autopilot. Arthur was now somewhere else in the gallery; Eames couldn’t find him. He scanned the room, walked around a bit, and decided to say his goodbyes to the people he’d met, and Sherri. And Arthur, if he could find him.

But Eames didn’t see Arthur again that night. He felt absurdly like Prince Charming being left with Cinderella’s glass slipper. And that was hopefully the last time he’d compare himself with Prince Charming as well as the first.

Eames had a fairly good alcohol tolerance and was more or less sober. He decided to go ahead and leave before too many drunkards and taxis were on the road.

At home, Eames dropped off to sleep almost right away. He simply couldn’t think about Arthur right then.

\-------

“Arthur! You just let Eames leave?” Sherri said in disbelief.

Arthur frowned. “Eames left?”

Sherri rolled her eyes.

Starting to feel just how tired he was, Arthur said his goodbyes to almost every remaining guest before making his way home, exercising extra caution. On the walk, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking about what an ass he’d been to Eames. He’d managed to screw that up pretty well. Asking him to a party as his date, schmoozing non-stop with people in the business, then kissing him and abruptly walking away.

Arthur tossed and turned all night, and the way he felt the next day made him extremely glad that this was a day off.

\-------

Arthur didn’t see Eames for a week, and then he finally asked Sherri -- who had just been giving him reproachful looks -- whether she had seen him since New Year’s. “No, hon,” she replied. “Eames was a seasonal employee. He may have quit early. I don’t know.” She shrugged, sympathetic.

Another week passed. Arthur felt unaccountably mopey. He tried to throw himself into his work, and attempted retail therapy, but it was just depressing knowing Eames wouldn’t be delivering anything to him.

One morning at the end of January, Sherri called up to tell him he had a visitor. Something in her tone made him think she was keeping something from him, but rather than press Sherri about it, he just acknowledged her and went downstairs to the lobby.

Eames stood at the reception desk, chatting quietly with Sherri, who cut a glance over to Arthur and gestured to Eames, patting his arm. Eames pushed back from the counter, and turned to him, a slightly tense smile plastered on his face. He was in dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He had a bag over his shoulder.

“Eames,” Arthur said with a nod, hoping he was doing a good job of acting casually polite. “Good to see you. What brings you here today?” He sounded stiff to his own ears, but it was that or blurting out something about having missed Eames.

“I was in the area and I thought I’d stop in and ask if you were available to go to lunch,” Eames said, adding quickly, “I’ve got some ideas for a show and I wanted to see what you thought.”

Ah, a professional call. All right. Arthur quashed his disappointment. “I don’t have room for it in my schedule today, but tomorrow I definitely can. Kosher deli around the corner, noon?”

“Sure.” Eames nodded, with a small, polite smile. “See you then.”

\-------

Eames decided that if Arthur wanted their relationship to be business-focused, he could deal with that. Arthur had done him a great service by introducing him to all those connections. He was clearly a useful, perhaps even essential, resource when it came to the show Eames was formulating.

But the truth was, Eames had missed Arthur.

At noon the next day, Eames walked to the deli to find Arthur standing outside, waiting for him. There was a line, and Eames stepped in next to him with a small smile. Eames had given up trying to find something posh to wear, and had on more or less what he’d been wearing yesterday. Arthur, in contrast, had on tailored trousers, a sage-green oxford with rolled-up sleeves, and an honest-to-God waistcoat. It was difficult not to stare.

They greeted each other politely and made small talk. Eames wanted badly to ask Arthur why he’d kissed him and then walked away, but that was, of course, out of the question.

Seated at a small table in the corner of the crowded dining room, Arthur reviewed Eames’ portfolio, and they talked about Eames’ plans. Although the gallery’s curator would have final say, Arthur raised questions and made suggestions, and cautioned Eames against following some of his more out-there tendencies. Eames, however, protested.

“Think about the big picture here, darling,” he teased. Ignoring the accidental endearment, Arthur had frowned over the plan and pointed out another concern.

\-------

Lunch had been pleasant, Arthur thought, but it was definitely awkward. First-date awkward, almost. Eames had for some reason used that pet name; Arthur had ignored it but he couldn’t forget it, even though he’d decided it probably meant nothing. Still, hearing it in that accent....

It had been really enjoyable discussing and dissecting Eames’ plans. Arthur had been quite impressed with his portfolio. He thought they could definitely do a show for Eames. And though Eames had made it clear he was already greatly indebted to Arthur and wasn’t trying to push for a show at his particular gallery, Arthur dismissed all that and wanted to move forward with one. Eames had seemed happy. Arthur had to admit it did him good to make Eames happy; he still felt a bit guilty over New Year’s Eve.

The next few weeks were spent doing preliminary planning for the show. Depending on what they could do with scheduling and promotion, it could be many months before the show actually happened. Arthur was secretly pleased at the near-guarantee that he’d be staying in contact with Eames for a while longer.

They had each other’s phone numbers now, but they never actually called each other. Eames stopped by twice a week to meet at designated times, and they occasionally went to lunch. Arthur thought fleetingly once of telling Eames that Petey missed him, but that seemed ill-advised, so he said nothing. Petey did miss him, though. Arthur could tell.

Arthur decided that, Eames’ descriptions, photographs, and measurements of his paintings aside, he would need to personally inspect the works before this got much further, to make sure they were all Eames said they were. He told Eames he would like to see his studio. “It’s just the second bedroom in my flat,” Eames said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That’s fine.” Arthur nodded, trying not to think about the first bedroom in Eames’ apartment just now.

They decided Arthur should come by late on Saturday afternoon. Eames offered, out of gratitude, to make Arthur dinner if Arthur had to spend longer than he wanted to looking through Eames’ work. Indian food, he said. Eames said a friend of his and said friend’s mother had taught him a great deal about Indian cuisine and he was quite good at it. Arthur accepted; it was impossible to turn that offer down.

\-------

Eames wasn’t used to being nervous. As he went around his flat tidying up for the umpteenth time, he found himself humming, something he only did when he was really happy or really anxious.

His flat was small but relatively neat. He liked to think that what it lacked in orderliness it made up for in artistic interest. He liked things to be colorful. He was fairly sure Arthur would approve. Well. Quite sure. Why did Arthur’s opinion matter so much, anyway? He was only coming to see Eames’ paintings, wasn’t he? He needn’t concern himself with anything else.

Where was he, anyway? Eames was going to go mad waiting.

\-------

Arthur decided on khakis and a chambray button-down, and some Adidas. Not dressy, not too casual. The closer to Eames’ apartment he got, the more this felt like a date, even though it was in the afternoon. He was going to where Eames lived, and he was almost certainly staying for dinner. And who knew what would happen afterward? Should he even be pondering that? So many questions.

He found comfort in the fact that things were almost certainly going to get cleared up tonight. They were at some sort of crossroads. Either they were well on their way to a harmonious work-only relationship, or they were headed toward... something else.

Eames answered the door in a tight black t-shirt and dark jeans, in his socks. He looked flustered, his hair wet but combed. “Hi,” he said. “Do come in.”

“Hi,” Arthur replied, raising his eyebrows, stepping in, catching the faint scent of Eames’ soap.

He looked around Eames’ apartment discreetly. It was compact, neat enough, and colorful. Decorated with eclectic items from around the world. “Nice place.”

Eames waved a hand in dismissal, but he looked pleased. “Thanks. The studio’s just this way,” he said, leading Arthur down the hall.

Eames’ studio was small, but it was well lit. The floor was covered in drop cloths; several easels of different sizes and types were present, and works sat on the floor and hung on the walls.

What looked like a Monet was directly to Arthur’s right. He peered at it, and turned to Eames, question on his lips. Anticipating him, Eames said, looking pained, “Yeah, well, I wanted to paint forgeries when I was younger. That was... practice.”

Arthur grinned at him, delighted by this intriguing tidbit. “Noted.”

Eames was far more interested in showing Arthur his original work. He seemed to feel a strange mixture of shyness and pride about it all. Arthur appreciated seeing in person the works he’d seen in photographs and imagined from Eames’ descriptions.

In the middle of talking about a large abstract work -- the one he’d mentioned weeks ago, when Arthur had seen the paint on his arm -- Eames stopped suddenly. “Christ, I’m sorry. I should’ve offered you something to drink.”

“Oh, it’s fine, but -- beer, if you’ve got any.”

“I’ll be right back,” Eames promised. He returned with two open bottles, and resumed his talk about the painting.

Eventually their talk turned to art books, leading Eames to return to a bookcase in the living room and large photography books spread out on the coffee table, pointing out his favorites.

On the couch with a large Ansel Adams book across his lap, Arthur realized it was dark out, and that he was hungry. “Hey, Eames? Is dinner still on offer?”

Eames looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, scanning the shelves of his bookcase. “Oh, absolutely,” he replied. “Just, can you offer me some help with the prep work? I hate to ask that of a guest, but it’ll be much faster if you assist me.” Arthur set the book aside and was on his feet before Eames was done talking.

\-------

Eames had experimented over the years and had a few favorite Indian dishes down pat. He’d decided on chicken tikka masala for tonight. It wasn’t especially impressive -- well, not to Indians or Britons -- but Eames was good at it and unlikely to mess it up. He’d put the chicken in the refrigerator to marinate overnight, and now he just had to direct Arthur in helping him out.

Arthur was a quick study, keen on learning more. He was also quite playful; Eames didn’t think it was just the beer. He teased Eames when he almost forgot to turn down the rice; he nudged him out of the way when he needed to reach something or open the oven door to take out the naan they heated up. He licked sauce discreetly from his fingertips, but not discreetly enough. Eames wished he could press Arthur against the counter and kiss him breathless. But this wasn’t a date.

They ate at Eames’ rickety antique kitchen table. Between the two of them they had no trouble eating everything they’d made, and Arthur was full of effusive, sincere praise. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” Eames replied.

Eames caught Arthur looking over the stack of DVDs he’d placed by the telly. “You want to watch a movie?” Arthur asked.

“Sure.” This wasn’t a date, Eames reminded himself again.

\--------

Arthur settled on _The Philadelphia Story_ , which he hadn’t seen in a long time and was pleased to see in Eames’ collection. Eames’ couch was small -- one might call it a loveseat, if one were so inclined -- and they each took a side. Arthur, full and slightly tipsy, settled easily into his corner, one arm draped over the back and the other over the arm. Eames sat more stiffly, but gradually relaxed.

They watched the entire movie companionably, although the whole time Arthur kept thinking about just turning to Eames and kissing him again, pulling up his shirt, pressing him back into the couch. He wondered if Eames was thinking the same thing about him. It was really quite distracting, but he still didn’t know if Eames thought this was a date.

Arthur decided it was time to be direct.

The credits rolled. Arthur turned to Eames. “Eames? Is this a date?”

Eames blinked at him. “Is it?”

“I’m asking you.”

“You suggested coming here.” Eames looked unhappy and sounded defensive. He got up to turn off the DVD.

“That doesn’t mean I intended it to be a date. The dinner was your idea.”

“The movie was yours.” Sitting down again, Eames looked away.

“So, does that mean we both think it’s a date? Eames, look at me.”

Eames did. “I don’t like being interrogated, Arthur.” His voice was low.

“I’m not trying to interrogate you, Eames. I just... have some questions.”

Eames laughed mirthlessly. “I’ve some questions of my own.”

“Please, ask away.”

“Why’d you kiss me and then just walk off?” Eames bit his lip.

Arthur felt a jolt to his chest. “Because I wanted to.”

“What, wanted to walk off?”

“Wanted to kiss you. I walked off because... I didn’t think you were that interested.” Arthur sank into the couch.

Eames rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Arthur, really.”

“I thought you just wanted something professional.”

Eames sat up and leaned toward him. “Well, I don’t.”

“What do you want?” Arthur asked, watching him.

Eames just smiled and kissed him.

\-------

Arthur was warm and pliant beneath Eames as they kissed, long nimble fingers finding their way under Eames’ shirt as he let himself be pressed back into the couch. Eames felt greedy for touch, shifting into the sensation of Arthur’s hands gliding over his skin. He made a soft sound, and Arthur laughed quietly in his throat. Eames drew back, and mock-frowned at him. “What is so terribly funny?”

Arthur chuckled, looking slightly dazed. “I’m laughing at myself for being such an idiot.”

“Understandable. Do let me know when you’ve finished so that I can continue.”

“I will. I’m laughing at you a little bit, too.” Arthur spread his hands out over Eames’ skin at his sides, then curled his fingers in, nails scraping Eames slightly and giving him goosebumps.

“Also understandable, so long as it’s nothing to do with my kissing or my art.” Eames knew his voice sounded a bit strained.

“It’s nothing to do with those things.” Arthur’s hands slid up and then down the length of his back.

Eames felt like he couldn’t keep still, not with Arthur’s hands roaming him in such a proprietary fashion. “Good.”

“Good.” Arthur tilted his head up for another kiss, and pulled Eames down to him. His lips parted easily for Eames, and Eames heard and felt the catch in his breath when their tongues met. Arthur pulled back for a moment with a grin to whisper “You taste like Indian food.” Eames growled in amusement and bit Arthur’s lower lip for that, and kissed him properly, until he was gasping.

Arthur’s fingertips worked under the waistbands of Eames’ jeans and underwear. Eames moved one hand, resting his weight on his other arm, to grasp Arthur’s khaki-clad leg and shift him to lie more along the couch, more directly under Eames than at that awkward angle. He let his weight settle more onto Arthur, who in turn shifted beneath him as they fit to each other. The shifting became grinding, and Eames once again felt like a bashful teenager, dry humping on the cramped couch.

They didn’t actually stop kissing until Arthur drew back, face flushed and mouth slick, to roughly declare, “I can’t wait anymore. I need you to take that shirt off.”

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Eames sat up on his heels, straddling one of Arthur’s legs, and peeled off his shirt. “Better now?” he asked as he tossed it to the floor.

“Definitely,” Arthur breathed, eyes wide as he drank Eames in.

Arthur struggled to sit up a bit more, not taking his gaze off Eames. He reached out to touch him, fingers ghosting over his ribs, moving up his pectorals to his clavicle. Eames shivered slightly as Arthur’s hands smoothed back down his chest, brushing over his nipples. Eames started unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt, but Arthur tsked him. “I’m trying to admire you.”

“Yes, well,” Eames replied, shrugging, “I’m trying to undress you.” He shifted back so Arthur could sit up more, and together they got his shirt off.

As Eames already knew, Arthur was beautiful. Lean, strong lines, skin smooth and warm and perfect under Eames’ hands and against his chest as they pressed together again. Eames kissed his mouth, his jaw, and down the length of his neck, dipping his tongue in the hollow of his throat. Arthur moved one hand to Eames’ shoulder, and the other to his hair, fingers kneading reflexively as Eames’ tongue laved his nipples. “Eames,” Arthur breathed as Eames kissed down his stomach, nipping at his taut abdomen.

“This all right?” Eames asked, voice husky, as he moved to kneel on the floor, fingers poised at the button of Arthur’s khakis. Arthur swallowed and nodded, moving only to arrange himself more comfortably against the back of the couch. Eames unbuttoned and unzipped him and tugged his khakis down his hips.

Arthur was hard in his little boxer-briefs, a dark spot of wetness drawing Eames’ eye to the tip of his cock just below his waistband. Eames squeezed him through the fabric to watch him squirm and hear him inhale. “Eames. Don’t be a tease.” Arthur huffed out a laugh.

“Why not?” Eames made himself go slowly as he took hold of the waistband of Arthur’s boxer-briefs and pulled it down.

“Because.” Evidently Arthur was not a rhetorical mastermind just then.

“You’re more of a tease than I am.” Eames was only half paying attention to their conversation, anyway. Arthur’s cock was flushed, glistening at the tip. Eames bent to taste him, and Arthur’s entire body went rigid. When Eames flicked his gaze to Arthur’s face, his eyes were closed tightly, and he was biting his lip.

“Arthur, I’ve barely even started.” Eames worked the fabric down further, freeing Arthur’s cock. He drew his tongue up the underside in a generous stripe.

Arthur gasped and opened his eyes. “I know, just--” He let his legs part that much further, canted his hips. “I’ve thought about this a lot, that’s all.”

“Mmm, have you.” Eames wrapped his lips around the head of Arthur’s cock. He heard Arthur’s long, shuddering breath at that.

Arthur’s fingers tried to grip the couch cushions. “Don’t look so smug,” he managed to say.

Eames hummed and pulled off, smiling. “Can’t help it, I’m afraid.” With a lick to the tip of Arthur’s cock, he took Arthur in, smoothly, as deeply as he could. Arthur groaned quietly, desperately, as Eames slowly drew back off. Eames wrapped his fingers around the base of Arthur’s cock and took his time running his tongue over every curve of the head, dipping into the slit and gathering the copious precome. Arthur was muttering curses, and when Eames took pity on him and drew him in again he gasped.

Eames could taste Arthur and memorize Arthur’s shape with his tongue all day, but Arthur might find that slightly less than ideal. Maybe -- just maybe -- in the future, Eames could take his time teasing Arthur as he wanted to.

He adjusted his hold on Arthur’s cock and got down to business, working Arthur properly, or as well as he could, considering his mind was racing and his trapped erection was being very distracting. The little noises Arthur was making weren’t helping his concentration in the slightest. Arthur responded to every little thing Eames did. Before long, he was panting, moving his hips as if to chase Eames’ mouth. Eames had to unbutton his jeans.

Normally, Eames would have been offended that someone he was blowing wasn’t speaking to him while being blown, but this was Arthur, and whenever he glanced at Arthur’s flushed face (he mostly tilted his head back, worrying his lip, eyes closed and nostrils slightly flared) he had the distinct feeling Arthur was beyond words.

He closed his eyes again, getting lost in what he was doing. This was Arthur against his tongue, gorgeous Arthur nudging against the back of his throat and his hands going to Eames’ hair. Eames started at the touch.

“Eames,” Arthur rasped, low. Eames opened his eyes. Arthur stared down at him, dazed, jaw a little slack. He was thrusting shallowly into Eames’ mouth, his fingers curling mindlessly in Eames’ hair. Eames nodded ever so slightly, taking his hand away from Arthur’s cock and curving it around his hip instead as he took Arthur in as far as he could and started moving over him again.

He pressed the heel of his other hand firmly against his own cock as Arthur made a quiet, desperate sound in the back of his throat. Then Arthur moved as if he simply couldn’t wait any longer. Eames groaned and rubbed himself hard as Arthur fucked his mouth. He, too, couldn’t stop. He’d been waiting for what felt like ages to have Arthur like this, and had been starting to think he’d never get it.

Even Arthur’s legs were slightly restless, and one of his hands had migrated to the couch where he tried to curl his fingers into it. Eames tightened his lips around Arthur, pressing his tongue firmly against him on each pass, savoring the slick slide. Arthur arched, tilting his head back again, chuffing out a gasp and then panting as he came, and Eames swallowed him down.

Eames’ cock pulsed under the suddenly harder pressure of his hand, and in his moment of surprise at realizing what was happening, it pulsed again, and he had little choice but to rub himself through it, groaning softly as he let Arthur’s cock slip from his mouth.

\-------

Arthur slumped against the couch, lashes fluttering. “Jesus,” he whispered. He registered that Eames was resting his forehead against his knee, his breath warm on Arthur’s skin. Eames’ ears were bright red. Arthur pulled gently on his hair to get Eames to look at him, face flushed and lips swollen. “Can I--” Arthur began, and Eames shook his head slightly, quickly, biting his lip. “I’ve already--” he said, cutting himself off abruptly.

Arthur blinked. “C’mere. Really?” he demanded, in awed disbelief as Eames clambered onto the couch and laid back. Arthur shed his khakis, pulled up his underwear, and moved to straddle him, reaching into his jeans. Sure enough, wetness met his fingers. He raised his eyebrows at Eames.

“Well,” Eames said defensively, “I’d been thinking about that a lot.”

“Jesus,” Arthur said again, resting his hands on Eames’ shoulders and bending to kiss him, tasting himself on those warm lips. Eames squirmed, and Arthur broke to say “Don’t be embarrassed. That’s... fuck, that’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” He laughed.

Eames chuckled, a little breathlessly. “You think it’s hot that you make me act like a teenager?”

“I don’t think it’s escaped your notice that the feeling is mutual.” Arthur kissed him again.

“How mature we are.” Eames laced his fingers together behind Arthur. “Honestly, love, I’ve better stamina than that. Really.”

“I guess I’ll have to give you another chance to prove yourself,” Arthur sighed, grinning. “Now, let’s get you out of those filthy clothes.”

\-------

Eames woke to Arthur kissing his way down the back of his neck. “I’ll have to get going soon,” Arthur whispered, mouth warm on his skin.

Eames rolled over, and wrapped his arms around him. “Oh, Arthur, don’t leave,” he sighed. “‘Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark.’”

“It’s after nine o’clock, Juliet,” Arthur said, shaking his head and smiling. “Petey’s got a doggy door and plenty of food, but he’ll think I’ve gone away forever and he’ll tear up the house in a panic.” His voice was appealingly rough with sleep.

“Mm, poor Petey. Can’t have that,” Eames said, and gave Arthur a kiss. “Can’t we get up to anything before you go? It’d be a shame to waste all this nakedness.”

“It would,” Arthur agreed, as Eames pressed kisses to his neck. He tilted his head back, and Eames took the hint, nipping and nuzzling his skin. Arthur had a beautiful neck and it was clearly a sensitive area for him. Luckily for Arthur, Eames was more than happy to indulge him.

“Are you still sore?” he whispered into Arthur’s ear at length, making Arthur shiver; he hesitated, and then nodded.

“Mm, sorry,” Eames murmured, before taking Arthur’s earlobe in his teeth. Arthur chuckled. “Don’t be.” He squirmed a little, erection nudging Eames, who took it in hand along with his own, and proceeded to continue nibbling at Arthur’s neck whilst languidly yet firmly jacking them together. Just before Arthur came, he felt clumsily about to take Eames’ face in his hands, pulling him close to kiss him and pant into his mouth, and that set Eames off.

After they’d cleaned up, Arthur allowed Eames to make him a quick omelet, and he returned home with (to Eames’ satisfaction) significant bedhead, stubble burn, at least one hickey, and a slightly dazed expression. Eames missed him the minute the door closed behind him.

Eames spent the rest of the day painting. He felt inspired.

Late in the afternoon, he was surprised out of his concentration by his mobile ringing. It was Arthur, calling him for the first time. “Hullo,” Eames said wonderingly.

“Hi. Wish you were here,” Arthur said. “Petey misses you,” he added.

“He does, does he?”

“Yup. He’s lost his appetite. It’s a problem.”

“Well, I’d better get over there presently.”

“Yeah, I think you’d better.”

Fifteen minutes or so later, Eames stood on Arthur’s stoop, and Arthur opened the door and sternly commanded Petey not to lunge out at him. Petey, of course, looked perfectly healthy and happy. But he was incredibly excited to see Eames. They let Petey get it out of his system before Arthur put him in the backyard and latched the doggy door.

Immediately, Arthur pressed Eames against the wall and kissed him like he hadn’t seen him in weeks. Months. Years. He hadn’t been kidding about Eames making him act like a teenager.

“Do you know what I want to do to you?” Arthur growled softly. “I want to bend you over my couch and fuck you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I got home.”

Eames blinked, and nodded, leaning his weight more on the wall as it seemed his legs were proving unsteady. “Come on, then.”

He’d once assumed Arthur was more of a bottom, but it seemed that whatever he was in the mood for, he was in it wholeheartedly, be it pushing back greedily against Eames and demanding more and harder as he had last night, or arranging Eames over the arm of his couch, yanking down his jeans, and determinedly slicking him up with long, deft fingers.

Eames was helpless at the mercy of those lovely fingers as they sought and found his prostate. He cursed and managed not to flail, and in short order Arthur was replacing his fingers with his cock. Eames gasped, letting his head drop forward.

They were both still mostly clothed, and Arthur rubbed his dry hand up and down Eames’ back and chest under his shirt, occasionally stopping to palm and pinch Eames’ nipples. Arthur was ruthless in his aiming for Eames’ prostate, and that in tandem with his lubed hand wrapping tightly around Eames’ cock had Eames gasping out a series of rather embarrassing noises, not that he really cared. At the last second he cupped his hand over himself to catch what he could in his palm.

He fell forward in a trembling mess as Arthur wrung a truly spectacular orgasm from him. As he floated through its aftermath, Arthur held his hips tightly and came, his breaths cooling the hot, damp skin of Eames’ back.

Arthur draped himself over Eames for a moment, pressing a few light kisses to his back before getting himself upright with some difficulty, withdrawing, and letting himself fall back into a heap on the floor. Leaning back on an elbow, he tucked himself away and watched as Eames gave his palm a few cursory licks, and pulled up his shorts and jeans before stumbling over to stretch out next to him, at least for a bit before going to get cleaned up. He was still a bit dazed; it felt like ages since he’d been caught up in such urgency.

“You hungry?” Arthur asked.

Arthur wasn’t quite as skilled a cook as Eames in terms of overall flair, but he got by. He told Eames he didn’t have a lot of brain power to spare just then, so he made an easy chicken stir-fry. He and Eames ate it on the couch while watching TV, and afterward, just lazed about until that turned into making out and led inevitably to Arthur’s bedroom.

Momentarily distracted by his need to take in new surroundings, Eames looked around at the decor with interest. As it was in the rest of the house, Arthur’s taste in here was simple and elegant, with a few notes of Far East influence. The Francis Bacon print over the desk, however, spoke to a quirk for the grotesque.

“Why’d you become an art dealer, anyway?” Eames asked, as he helped Arthur out of his shirt.

“More interesting than my original career path.” Arthur efficiently shucked off his own jeans and started on Eames’.

“Which was?” Eames got on the bed, testing its bounce.

“Financial planner.”

“Ah.” Eames winced.

Arthur shrugged. “It was fine. Just boring.” Naked, Arthur clambered onto the bed and bridged himself over Eames, who leaned back and settled under him. Arthur continued. “I mean, I like structure. I like planning and reason. I like things that make sense.”

He sighed, brow furrowing and then relaxing. “But I want the beautiful stuff too, you know? Stuff that doesn’t have to follow rules or make sense.” He bent to kiss Eames.

\-------

Arthur wasn’t very happy with having to go back to work on Monday. He was tempted to call in sick and spend all day with Eames, but instead, he went in late, and left a spare key with Eames in case he wanted to go home after he ate. It was incredibly difficult to walk out of his bedroom, leaving a nearly-naked Eames flushed and sleep-rumpled, stretching under his sheets and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s pillow.

Arthur asked himself what the hell he was doing going to work, and pledged to leave early.

He had on one of his higher-collared shirts, but Sherri still eyed his neck and shook her finger at him, smiling. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling back.

He did manage to get away early, and nearly raced home. Eames was still there, sitting on the couch, with Petey, who had bounded for the door when Arthur came in. Eames stood, smiling and stretching, moving in for a kiss. He was barefoot, drowsy looking, hair sticking up in the back. “We had a bit of a lie-down,” he said, indicating Petey.

“Were you here all day?” Arthur asked, setting down his bag and toeing off his shoes.

“Yeah, mostly.” Eames shrugged, going a little pink. “Wanted to keep Petey company.”

“Of course.” Arthur nodded, and grinned. Eames relaxed a bit. “Lemme change, I’ll be right back.”

Arthur was surprised to find that his bed was made, albeit haphazardly, and his dirty clothes put away in the closet hamper. Eames’ clothes were on the back of a chair, along with some he must have brought from his apartment. It should’ve felt intrusive, but it didn’t.

In jeans and a t-shirt, Arthur returned to the living room, and stretched out on the couch next to Eames. “Hey, so,” he said, as Eames worried a lock of hair at the back of his head, “I’ve got a meeting with Portia, the curator, later this week. I’ll talk to her about your show.”

“Ah.” Eames nodded, eyebrows raised. “Good.”

“I think we’ve got a pretty good shot of her approving it,” he continued, “but if she doesn’t, there’s plenty of other galleries that would be happy to have you. So, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Eames hesitated, and Arthur waited. “It’s just... isn’t it a bit suspect, if I’ve got a show at your gallery, and we’re sleeping together?”

Arthur considered. “It’s not unheard of. Besides, people wouldn’t necessarily know. And so what if they did?”

“Does it bother you, though? That’s more what I’m worried about,” Eames said. “I don’t want you to think I went after you to get you to do my show. I mean....” He shook his head. “I respect you, and your work, and I... separately, also really wanted to sleep with you. That’s the long and the short of it. I’d want to show at the gallery regardless of who worked there, and I’d want you regardless of where you worked.”

“Convenient how it works out, though,” Arthur teased, tipping Eames’ chin and kissing him. “I understand, Eames. It’s fine.” He smiled. “It’s more than fine, actually.” He laughed. “It’s wonderful.”

\-------

_Six Months Later_

“Eames. Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

“All right then, I won’t.”

“Eames.”

Eames looked over his teacup at Arthur, sulky. Arthur, fresh from his morning run and shower, was brisk in the mornings, especially when there was something to be done. He frowned at Eames, and then relented suddenly. “It’s normal to be nervous before a big show.”

“I’m not nervous,” Eames lied.

Arthur stood, in his trousers and sock feet and undershirt, oxford unbuttoned and tie around his neck, and kissed the top of Eames’ head, hands spreading out over his shoulders. “It’s fine.”

Eames closed his eyes and inhaled the scents of Arthur’s soap, his shampoo, his aftershave. “‘M not nervous.”

“Of course not.” Arthur kneaded the incredibly tense muscles of Eames’ shoulders, and Eames groaned quietly, tilting his head back to blink up at Arthur.

“You’ll be fine,” Arthur continued, thumbs digging in. “I’ve done dozens of shows. I’d never steer you wrong.”

“I know. Christ, that feels good,” Eames said, distracted as Arthur no doubt intended, the crafty bastard. “Don’t stop.”

“I can give you a proper massage and then go in late,” Arthur suggested, and before he was done talking Eames was standing.

Arthur shed his oxford and tie, and Eames took off his t-shirt and stretched out on Arthur’s bed, facedown. Eames had taken a job as a graphic designer some months back, but he had today off because of the show, and was thus free to nap into the afternoon if he so desired. With that in mind, he closed his eyes and started dozing as Arthur straddled him and kneaded his back like so much bread dough.

He registered Arthur working his shoulders again, but was surprised when he spoke. “When I first saw you, I used to try and imagine what you looked like shirtless,” he commented. “Now I’m all too aware.” With a small chuckle, he dropped a kiss to Eames’ shoulderblade.

“I’m assuming that’s a compliment,” Eames replied, voice muffled.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Arthur worked over Eames’ neck and down to the small of his back, and a lot of the time, it hurt. Eames would spend hours hunched over at his desk or working on a canvas without a break. He couldn’t help groaning softly every so often when Arthur’s ministrations hurt. Every time he did, though, Arthur would move to kiss the spot before continuing. He was painstakingly thorough.

“I’m really not feeling motivated to go to work,” Arthur sighed.

“Mmmm,’” Eames replied, muffled.

“Not with those sounds you keep making.”

Eames fairly purred. “If I roll over, darling, will you give me a happy ending?” Ignoring Arthur’s scoff, he continued. “You’ll have to do most of the work, I’m afraid. You’ve relaxed me far too well.”

Arthur paused in his rubbing of Eames’ shoulders. “I’ll do almost all the work,” he said, “if you’re patient.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of this.”

“You’ll come around.” Arthur got up so Eames could move.

“Speaking of coming ‘round.” Eames shifted and turned over. “Hurry up and make me be patient.” He leaned back on his elbows to watch.

Arthur got the bottle of lube from the nightstand and dropped it on the bed beside him. He took his time working the waistband of Eames’ boxers down his hips and over his cock; he stopped Eames from kicking them off, and placed them on the bed instead, then slicked up the fingers of one hand.

He kissed his way up Eames’ thighs to give his balls a thorough tonguing, two slick fingertips teasing at him without pushing in. Attention to his balls always got Eames squirming because it felt good, but it never got him further than that, and Arthur knew it. “Arthur, please,” he said, feeling unaccountably rude but unable to not say anything.

“Be patient, Eames,” Arthur admonished gently, before wetting his lips and moving to wriggle the tip of his tongue up the underside of Eames’ now-hard cock. Eames made a tiny sound in the back of his throat. The wet little touches made him shiver but they weren’t nearly direct enough. Arthur stroked the tip of his tongue almost idly over all the curves and slopes of the head of Eames’ cock, rubbing his slit as well, but only lightly.

“Please,” Eames said again, a little more desperately. He felt ridiculously hard for what little Arthur was doing to him.

“Shhh,” Arthur said mildly, before taking him in, letting his lips glide up and down Eames’ cock, one hand moving to loosely grip him and jack him in neat counterpoint to his mouth. Just as Eames was about to register another more panicked complaint, Arthur gave him a squeeze, gripped him quite a bit more firmly, and sucked him in earnest. Eames was vocal if not coherent in his appreciation.

But just as his balls tightened under the light touch of Arthur’s fingertips, Arthur drew off and loosened his hold. “Jesus Christ, Arthur,” Eames protested, astonished, watching a spurt of precome drip down to Arthur’s fingers like a surprised exclamation.

Arthur ignored him, and spread the precome on his fingers before resuming a loose grip on Eames and taking him in again. Eames took deep breaths and started to lose himself again in the feeling of Arthur’s warm, curved lips around his cock, lightly sliding over him. Arthur gripped him more tightly, suddenly again this time, and those almost-forgotten fingers pressed firmly against his perineum. Eames gasped in surprise just as Arthur’s mouth tightened around him, and he hoped through the next pumps of Arthur’s hand and passes of his mouth that he’d be brought off this time, but just as he inhaled and his balls tightened once more, Arthur loosened his hold and drew off. “Arthur,” Eames cried. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Eames,” Arthur said, amused, gentle. “I’m doing this for you.”

“For me?” Eames was indignant. “To me, more like. This is simply unfair.”

“That’s not the idea at all,” Arthur said, shaking his head, grinning. “I’m building it up for you. When I finally do let you come, you’ll be so crazy for it you’ll be coming like a freight train.”

“Right. Right,” Eames faintly said after a moment, feeling foolish. “Right. Okay. Jesus, it’s been years and I hardly was given an explanation then, Christ.” Eames realized he was babbling.

Arthur nodded, gave Eames a gentle squeeze and started to work up again to a speed and pressure that had Eames breathing hard once more. “Please, please, please,” he chanted softly.

“Soon,” Arthur promised, drawing off at the moment Eames was sure he’d keep going.

“I’ve told you you’re a worse tease than I am,” Eames sighed.

“I’m not teasing,” Arthur said, getting more precome on his palm. Eames was really quite wet at this point, from himself and from Arthur’s tongue. “I’m ramping it up. Taking you to the next level.” He still sounded amused, the bastard.

Arthur spent much longer building up pressure and speed then. It was so gradual Eames didn’t fully realize it was happening until Arthur was jacking him properly, taking him in with his lips tight.

Realizing he was probably going to be allowed come this time, Eames started thrusting his hips, and Arthur didn’t try to stop him. His grip was no longer so tight when it met the base, and when Arthur’s fingers actually breached him he gasped like he’d been punched, and almost sobbed out his breaths as he came over Arthur’s lips and fingers; God, it seemed like it wouldn’t stop, and it felt so, so good.

Arthur licked up most of his come, but not all. He worked Eames until, oversensitive, Eames raised a shaking hand.

“Arthur, I can’t--” he began breathlessly as Arthur released him. “That is, I don’t think I’m in a state to reciprocate just yet.” His legs were trembling.

Arthur shook his head briefly and moved to sit on his heels beside Eames, wiping his hand on Eames’ boxers before undoing his trousers. He was flushed, come on his chin, his other hand shaking slightly as he took his cock out.

With Eames’ come slicking him, he stroked himself quickly, and came on Eames’ abdomen and spent cock, adding to the mess there. He then bent to lick it up, taking his time.

Eames propped himself up on his elbows again -- when had he lain back? -- and stared down. When Arthur lifted his head, he met Eames’ gaze. Arthur’s pupils were massive and his lips were parted.

“Why haven’t we done that before?” Eames demanded.

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “No real reason,” he replied with a shrug, tucking himself away and stretching out. “We’re usually way too worked up to pause, that’s all.”

“True.” Eames looked over at Arthur, who was pink-cheeked, his hair mussed. “It’ll be rather obvious why you’re coming in late,” he teased, swiping a thumb over Arthur’s chin.

Arthur shrugged, grinning. “We’re all adults, they can deal.” With a pleased-sounding sigh, he got up, and resumed dressing for work, after he brought Eames a damp flannel.

As he dabbed himself clean, Eames stretched out and watched Arthur dress. He would come home after work to get dressed for the show, but they wouldn’t have time to hang about or have much in the way of supper.

Properly dressed and neat once more, Arthur leaned over to give him a quick kiss, taking up the flannel to put it in the hamper. “Nap. Relax,” he said. “Your show will be amazing.”

“Thank you, love,” Eames replied drowsily.

Arthur left for work, and Eames napped. He dreamt.

He dreamt of several things, most of them nonsensical and unimportant. Lastly, though, he dreamt of sitting at a breakfast table, sipping tea. He looked up from his toast and marmalade to see Arthur, looking back at him over the tops of his glasses, gray streaking his curls. This older Arthur smiled at him, eyes crinkling, gaze fond. Eames reached for his hand across the table and squeezed it, and Arthur’s fingers stroked gently over his own.

Eames awoke in the afternoon, made himself a sandwich, and took a shower. Most of his shower things were here; he spent more time at Arthur’s than at his own flat, unless he was painting, in which case Arthur had to practically break in to make sure he was properly eating and sleeping. That didn’t happen so much anymore now that he had a job, but he’d been known to spend entire Saturdays just painting.

He took his time getting dressed in the suit Arthur had helped him pick out. The nervousness he’d felt that morning was gone; in its place was a pleasant calm as he waited for Arthur to come home. The way he’d felt in the dream seemed to suffuse everything.

Arthur came home as Eames was in front of his dresser mirror attempting to properly knot his tie. He wasn’t bad at it, but it seemed Arthur was always better.

He met Arthur halfway, in the hall, and they kissed, smiling. “Missed you,” Eames said, a bit cheeky, grin widening at Arthur’s “Missed you too.” He took Arthur’s hand and led him to the bedroom.

Arthur sat him down and did his tie for him, then changed into what he was wearing for the show. All the while he told Eames the latest news at the gallery and about the show. Eames was happy to watch, and to listen to Arthur’s musings and instructions.

“You seem awfully quiet and happy,” Arthur remarked as he did up his cufflinks. “Sleep well?”

“I did indeed,” Eames replied simply, smiling.

Arthur made himself a quick sandwich, and they left for the gallery, electing to drive rather than walk. As Arthur backed the car out of the driveway, Eames felt a jolt in his stomach, but it was one of excitement rather than anxiety.

\-------

As they walked into the gallery, his hand at the small of Eames’ back, Arthur remembered the first time Eames had gone to an event there. New Year’s Eve wasn’t that long ago, but it seemed like it was. Eames had been shy then, uncertain. He’d felt he had one suitable outfit for such an occasion.

Tonight, his bearing was confident, his expression bright and friendly. Eames self-deprecatingly claimed these days that Arthur was responsible for his fashion choices now, but they both knew Arthur just made suggestions and pointed things out; it was just that he was usually right. And Arthur was also right that Eames made anything look good.

Eames was friendly with more people now, and was at much greater ease talking with them. He was utterly charming and seemed to be enjoying himself greatly, never more than when he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek during a quiet moment.

They happened to be in front of what Eames termed his pièce de résistance: an oversized partial portrait of the side of Arthur’s face when he smiled. Eames said its creation was an indulgence he had to permit himself. He’d told Arthur he’d once wondered if he could capture Arthur’s smile, and that while he’d gamely attempted, he could only hope that he’d depicted the way it felt to see it. Arthur, who’d never been the subject of a painting or anyone’s muse before, said only Eames could really make that call.

(Arthur’s personal favorite was a large close-up of daylilies opening to the sun in a riot of bright, warm color. He felt they reminded him of Eames, although maybe it was a bit cheesy to feel that way.)

“Told you you had nothing to worry about,” Arthur whispered, smiling.

“You’re always right,” Eames replied, rolling his eyes affectionately.

“I know,” Arthur responded, “and my relaxation methods are second to none.” Eames snorted into his drink.

\-------

Eames had talked and talked until he was hoarse. There had been so many people to talk to, to schmooze with as Arthur put it.

As they drove back to Arthur’s house, Eames closed his eyes, thinking of how much he was looking forward to sleep, and remembered his dream. “Oh,” he said, startled.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, glancing briefly at him. “Did you forget something at the gallery?”

Eames shook his head. “No, it’s... nothing.”

Arthur nodded, but looked skeptical.

Once home, they got ready for bed and were under the covers soon enough, Petey out like a light in his bed in the corner. With Arthur at his back, Eames found himself unable to drop off to sleep despite his tiredness. Assuming Arthur was asleep, he sighed quietly.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, working his fingers gently through Eames’ hair. “Did you not have a good night? It seemed like you did.”

“No, kitten, I did, it was brilliant. It’s just.... I had a dream earlier today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, and I want to tell you about it, but I don’t want you to think I’m barmy, considering we haven’t even known each other for a year.”

“I probably won’t think you’re ...barmy. Tell me.”

Eames took a deep breath. “I dreamt that you were much older, with gray in your hair, and you were sitting across the breakfast table smiling at me over your bifocals.” He chuckled softly.

Arthur joined him with a quiet laugh. “Is that all?” He tugged gently on Eames’ cowlick, which had worked itself free from the remnants of the evening’s gel.

“Well, I went to take your hand, but yes, that was basically it.”

“That’s fine. The subconscious wants what it wants.” He paused. “Is that what you want?”

Eames hesitated. “I’d like that. I was so happy in the dream.” We both were, he thought.

“I want you to be happy,” Arthur said. “That may entail us growing old together; it may not. Only time will tell.”

Eames nodded. “I know. I don’t want you to feel pressured, just because I had a dream. But I did want to tell you about it.”

“I’m glad you told me about the dream,” Arthur said, and kissed the back of Eames’ neck.

“I’m happy now, too, you know,” Eames said, settling back against Arthur. “I once thought I might have to leave Los Angeles, but now that I know you....”

“I’m very glad you didn’t leave Los Angeles, believe me,” Arthur replied, drowsy but with a smile in his voice.

That had gone better than he’d expected. Relieved, Eames exhaled with a hum, closing his eyes and letting himself relax as tension gradually drained from him. Arthur pressed a bit closer, putting his arm over Eames.

Eames had almost fallen asleep when Arthur spoke, sounding hesitant. “You know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to suggest to you.”

Arthur rarely sounded shy around him anymore; suddenly more alert, Eames turned over under Arthur’s arm to blink at him in the low light. “What is it, love?”

“Well... do you think the guest room would make a good studio? It has a north-facing window,” he added as Eames tucked a wayward curl behind Arthur’s ear.

Eames furrowed his brow. “Sure,” he said, thinking about it. “It’s big enough, lots of light. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just.... I know your studio isn’t that big, and... a lot of your stuff is over here anyway, so.... Maybe at some point we should start discussing you moving in here.”

“Oh?” Although they both were aware of how much time Eames spent here and how much of his things just stayed here instead of finding their way back to Eames’ flat, it still wasn’t something they’d really discussed. Eames hadn’t seriously thought about moving in, but reflecting on it now, he couldn’t help smiling. The fact that Arthur had brought it up, Arthur with his reasoned planning, made it even better.

“Yeah. I just... I know it’s soon, but....” Arthur shrugged. Eames thought he could see a flush on his cheeks.

Eames kissed him. “It’s a lovely idea. And I can’t think of a reason why it shouldn’t happen. We’ll talk about it more soon, yeah?”

“Okay.” Arthur ducked his head, smiling. Feeling a rush of fondness, Eames kissed his brow. “You’re my favorite muse. Love you,” he whispered. “Sweet dreams.”

“You too,” Arthur responded with a soft, tired chuckle, resting his hand on Eames’ chest and closing his eyes.

\-------

Arthur woke on New Year’s Day to fiercely bright sunlight streaming through the living room windows. Groaning softly, he closed his eyes again and resettled himself on Eames, shifting when he discovered a puddle of his drool on Eames’ shirt. Eames stirred, a hand going to Arthur’s back. He grunted softly, and Arthur hummed in reply.

“Damned sun,” Arthur groused, tucking himself more into the space between Eames and the back of the couch. “I’m sick of California. Let’s go somewhere where there’s no sun.”

Eames conspicuously went still. “You know,” he said, voice muzzy, “we could do. We could visit my family in London.”

Arthur sat up a bit, but his headache immediately made it clear that he’d be better off back where he was. “Wow, sure,” he said, surprised, gingerly settling back in. “I’d love that. Have you... been homesick?” Arthur sometimes had a nagging fear that Eames secretly longed to return to England.

“No, not really. It’s just.... I haven’t seen them in ages, and I’d like to be able to visit looking well and with my head held high, and with you,” Eames said, idly carding his fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “I don’t have anything to prove to them,” he continued, “but they did have their doubts as to how well I’d do out here.”

“Do you think they’ll like me?” Arthur asked, voice muffled.

“Sweetheart, they’ll adore you.”

Arthur laughed softly, took a deep breath, and slowly sat up. “They’d better, with everything I do for you,” he teased. Standing up, he groaned. “Stay right there. I’m getting us some water.”

Eames yawned. “Won’t move a muscle. Thank goodness you had us take aspirin last night. Don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me sorted.” His tone was kind, but not patronizing; Eames had, astutely, picked up a long time ago on how important it was to Arthur to be able to take care of things.

Arthur brought back two glasses of water, handing one to Eames as he sat up. He took a long drink of water and then sat down beside him. “I put the kettle on,” he said as the coffee he’d started for himself began to percolate. “If you want it done right, you’ll have to brew the tea yourself.” After some consternation, Arthur had given up a while back on being able to properly brew tea for Eames the way he wanted it.

“I know,” Eames sighed, amused, and kissed Arthur’s cheek.

“Happy New Year, Eames.” Arthur settled his weight against Eames, closing his eyes as Eames put his arm around him.

“Happy New Year, Arthur,” Eames replied, quiet and fond.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Shelby for giving me this idea; Liz, Julia, Amy, Cera, and Kristen for reading it over; and Katie for fact-checking re: the art world.


End file.
